


Eames’ Top Ten Moments of the Past Year

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, M/M, Slow Build, Top Ten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten moments, all job (and Arthur) related<br/>Originally for a Christmas exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eames’ Top Ten Moments of the Past Year

**Ten: 12.45 a.m., January 1st**

Eames is afraid he’s lost Arthur among the throng of people in the club; of course Arthur can look after himself, but it’s bad form to lose your date on New Year’s Eve, even if it’s just a bro-date.

He makes a circuit of the club, gets his ass pinched a couple times, nearly gets a drink spilled down his front by a stumblingly-drunken brunette. He doesn’t find Arthur straightaway, so he heads to the balcony, to get a better look at the entire place.

From that vantage point, it only takes a couple of seconds before he spots Arthur, although he actually has to squint to make certain he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Arthur, jacket and tie vanished, four buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, is on the dancefloor, gyrating in time with the pounding rhythm. His eyes are closed, his head’s thrown back, hair sweaty and disheveled; every fourth beat, he throws in a little pelvic thrust to emphasize the heavy percussion. _Jesus Christ_.

Eames has never seen Arthur like that, would have bet any amount of money against the odds of it, actually. Odds or not, Arthur’s out there in the middle of it, grinning like an idiot and shaking his booty, not to put too fine a point on it.

He leans on the balcony railing, more or less enthralled. No reason Arthur shouldn’t shake his booty, he supposes. It’s a spectacular booty, always has been. Eames has just never seen it do _that_ before.

 

**Nine: 9.45 p.m., February 6th**

Arthur had shown none of the normal signs of disapproval when Eames was late to the meeting; no tightness around his eyes, no thin-lipped little smile when he introduced Eames as Mr. Brannigan. On the contrary: Eames caught Arthur looking him over with a faintly approving curve to his lips, and Eames found himself playing up to the clients even more than usual, almost showing off, for fuck’s sake.

Now the clients have withdrawn for a moment to talk between themselves before agreeing to the job – and they will agree, Eames is positive of that, they simply need to make it look as if they’re not overly eager to engage in criminal activities.

Eames turns to make pointless small talk with Arthur, so it won’t look as if they’re nervously awaiting their clients’ return, and forgets whatever he was going to say.

Arthur is drawing steadily on his cigar, eyes half-closed. His mouth around the foot-end is a delectable O; when he puffs out, his tongue darts forward the tiniest bit, as if to more fully savour the taste. The smoke creates a halo around Arthur’s in front of his face; by the warm dim light of the lounge, it gives him a slightly depraved cast.

Arthur opens his eyes, and realizes that Eames is staring at him. He flashes a wicked smirk, deliberately wets his lips with his tongue, raises the cigar to his mouth, and this time after drawing, sends three flawless smoke rings wafting towards Eames’ head.

 

**Eight: 7.19 a.m., February 26th**

Eames is confused to realize that the blaring, horrible, guitar-heavy music is coming from their offices. He checks the suite number; he must be on the wrong floor because Arthur is very stern on the subject of “early morning quiet”. It’s why no-one shows up until eight or later, so Arthur can get the need for total silence out of his system. Eames was just awake early and restless today.

Eames opens the door slowly, prepared to pull his gun - he’s got images of Arthur being tortured to this ghastly song – and comes to a dead halt.

Arthur is playing air guitar.

He’s standing on a desk, making weird guitar-player faces, shaking his head and mouthing the words. He’s doing that finger-thing that people playing air guitar do, moving them around rapidly like there’s really a neck and strings, like he actually knows how to play “Eye of the Tiger”.

As the song crashes into the finishing bars, Arthur leaps off the desk in a truly abysmal Pete Townsend impersonation – and then sees Eames.

They’re both motionless for a moment – Arthur a deer in headlights, Eames a man who’s not certain he isn’t about to be shot. Finally Eames, never one to mind rushing in where angels fear to tread, does the only thing he can think to do: pulls the Zippo out of his pocket, lights it, and holds it over his head.

Arthur’s face goes brick-red. “Go fuck yourself,” he snaps, and stalks out of the room.

**Seven: 3.31 p.m., May 19th**

Eames hasn’t yet found Arthur, but since Arthur was thoughtful enough to request a poolside meeting, Eames is content to relax in at a table in the pool area, enjoying a mai-tai and the generous displays of skin, occasionally glancing around to see if Arthur’s shown up yet.

“There you are.”

It takes a moment for Eames’ brain to process that yes, he is looking at Arthur. An Arthur wearing nothing but red swim trunks; an Arthur with rivulets of water trickling from his hair onto his shoulders and down his lithe, smooth body.

Eames can’t remember having seen Arthur wearing so little; he’s never had the chance to appreciate how elegantly compact Arthur is, how the handful of scars only accentuate the fact that there is a great deal more to Arthur than his polished manner would imply.

A drop of water is meandering over Arthur’s bare chest, along the line of his stomach, as if marking a trail. Eames wonders what Arthur would do if he offered to follow that trail.

“Eames.” Arthur is impatient. “Are you ready? We really need to go over this.”

With some effort, Eames pulls his gaze away from the drop of water as it slides beneath Arthur’s waistband. “Yes, of course,” he says, trying not to dwell on the word “slippery” in conjunction with Arthur’s skin. “Do try not to drip on me, there’s a good lad.”

Arthur grins, tilts his body forward, and shakes his soaking wet hair all over Eames.

**Six: 7.34 a.m.,June 4th**

“What am I looking for?” Eames asks, taking the sheaf of papers Arthur’s holding out.

Arthur covers his face with his hands. “Ideally, I’d like you to tell me that we’re not completely fucked.”

Eames frowns, and begins reading through the papers. “Although I do adore telling you you’re wrong,” he says eventually, “ ‘completely fucked’ is an accurate assessment.”

Arthur mutters viciously. “You never can be helpful,” he grumbles. Eames realizes there are bruise-dark circles of exhaustion under Arthur’s eyes, that Arthur’s face has that manic look which means he’s wound far too tightly.

“When was the last time you slept?” Eames asks. “Or ate?”

Arthur shrugs, wincing as he does so, and raises a hand to rub his shoulder. “I’ve been busy trying to gauge how fucked we are.”

“And now you’ve worked that out, you’re still too busy to bother with such petty worries,” Eames says, exasperated. “Stop that, you’re not doing any good; unbutton your shirt and let me.”

Surprisingly, Arthur obeys; Eames stands behind him, begins to knead the muscles of his shoulders.

“So what now?” Arthur wonders, then hisses as Eames hits a sensitive spot. “No, go ahead,” he says when Eames stops. “It’s helping.”

“Now you eat something, and get some sleep,” Eames says forcefully. Arthur starts to protest, but Eames gives him a shake. “Even you, Arthur, can’t function like this indefinitely. ‘Completely fucked’ will wait until you wake up.”

After a moment’s silence, Arthur says, “Thanks,” very awkwardly. Eames only smiles.

**Five: 11.56 p.m., August 19th**

Ignoring the banging on the door hasn’t made it stop, so with an exasperated growl, Eames hauls himself out of the bathtub, wraps a towel around his waist, and goes to tell whoever-it-is to fuck right off.

“What is so bloody important that you couldn’t just call?” he demands of Arthur, because of course it’s Arthur, who the hell else would it be?

Arthur’s mouth snaps shut just as Eames realizes it’s hanging open. “I did call,” he replies defensively. “Several times. You didn’t answer.”

“Perhaps that should have told you I didn’t wish to be interrupted?” Eames points out. He’s trying to be peevish, but there’s an unfamiliar gleam in Arthur’s eyes that’s distracting him.

“Yes, Eames, convoluted as this job has become, I should assume you want solitude when you don’t answer your phone,” Arthur says, arch as Eames has ever heard him. “Not that the skittish clients have tried to remove you from the picture.”

Eames is half-listening; mostly he’s noticing how Arthur is trying to not stare at the wide, bare expanse of his chest. “Now you’ve seen that I’m unscathed,” Eames says. “Happy?”

On the last word, Eames loosens his grip on the towel. It slides low enough to show a generous patch of hair below his navel; Arthur makes some sort of very intriguing noise, which is quickly turned into a cough.

“Just check your goddamn phone,” Arthur blurts; he somehow manages to not give the impression that he’s fleeing, though he obviously is.

 

**Four: 5.03 p.m., November 20th**

“Last chance to run like hell,” Eames mutters for Arthur’s ears alone.

“We’ve put too much into it,” Arthur replies. “We can’t leave Bakunc and Desmet on their own; they’re too inexperienced- “

“- and too dumb – “ Eames adds grimly.

“-too dumb to finish it up, even if the job didn’t need a forger, which it does.” Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he looks straight at Eames. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I should have known something was off, no-one owns that many mines – “

“Don’t be more of a prat than you have to,” Eames is exasperated. “Everything that goes wrong is not your fault, Arthur, much as you would like it to be. In the immortal words of a very dull playwright they made us read at school, when sorrows come, they come not single spies – “

“ –but in battalions,” Arthur finishes. He doesn’t look less tense, precisely, but he does look more focused. “You couldn’t have quoted something with a bit less carnage?”

Eames tries for a genuine smile. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Arthur glares, but there’s no heat to it. “Be careful, Eames,” he says, sliding the needle into Eames’ arm. “You’re the dreamer -”

“ – and I’ve got to keep it going no matter what, yes, I know,” Eames replies, testy. “Let’s get it over with.”

Arthur looks to be considering the “running like hell” option, but then grips Eames’ wrist tightly, repeats, “Be careful,” and pushes the button.

**Three: 5.07 p.m., November 20th**

“Shit.” Arthur is kneeling there, gun in one hand. “Jesus, what the fuck happened?”

“Oh, you know,” Eames says, waving a blood-covered hand. “Joys of a militarized mind. Don’t worry, I’ve tourniqueted it; should give you enough time. How long will it be, do you think?”

Arthur manages to be disapproving and anxious at once. “I don’t know,” he admits, examining the bayonet jammed in Eames’ leg. “Shit, I’m sorry, I can’t – it’s only been three minutes - if we don’t – who dreams up fucking bayonets?“

“I know, Arthur,” Eames replies, not understanding why he looks so worried; it’s none of it real. “Just re-tie that tourniquet, will you? I’m afraid I’ve cocked it up.”

“Yes, you have,” Arthur says. Maybe it’s the blood loss, but Eames fancies there’s a note of affection in Arthur’s tone. “This is going to hurt.”

It does, so much that Eames thinks it might kick him out, but he stays collapsed in a pool of his own blood, Arthur staring at him with something like fear.

“Hey,” Eames says, when he can speak past the pain.“It’s the job. Now – go finish the goddamn job so I can die.”

Arthur reaches out, brushes his thumb over Eames’ mouth; a jolt of heat, wholly incongruous given the situation, burns Eames’ lips. “I’ll hurry,” Arthur murmurs, then he’s gone.

Eames would be touched if he weren’t so busy hoping there are no projections coming to finish him off. Perhaps he should have told Arthur about the gut-wound.

**Two: 6.39 p.m., November 20th**

“Arthur, stay awake!” Eames barks. “Arthur, are you listening to me?”

A noise escapes Arthur, something approximating acknowledgement. Eames tears his eyes from the road for a fraction of a second; Arthur is slumped against the car door, hands pressed against his ribcage, not nearly hard enough to keep the blood from seeping out between his fingers. There’s blood trickling from his scalp as well.

“Stay awake, asshole,” Eames orders, cutting across three lanes of oncoming traffic, not giving one good fuck at the crash of metal in his wake. “We’re almost there, don’t you fucking dare – “

“ – ‘m okay,” Arthur gasps, but he spits out blood and Eames jams the gas pedal down harder.

“You are so far from ‘okay’ that ‘okay’ is practically the Emerald City of Oz,” Eames contradicts, streaking through a red light. “ You are to ‘okay’ as fish are to bicycles, as Lady Godiva is to clothes, as you are to Cheech and Chong – “ he’s talking to be talking, he knows it, but a quick glance shows that Arthur staring at him unfocusedly – he’s concussed, Eames is sure of it - so it’s working.

“You’ll stay?” Arthur’s voice is a pitiful rasp; Eames wants to smack him for trying to talk at all.

“No, I’m going to dump you on the sidewalk and flee into the night,” Eames retorts as they come to a screeching halt into the hospital parking lot. “Of course I’ll stay, you amazing, brilliant, incredible pain in my ass.”

 

**One: 2.55 p.m., December 22nd**

“I didn’t get you anything,” Arthur says guiltily. “I didn’t know we were exchanging.”

“You’ve been rather busy,” Eames points out, “healing the gunshot and all.”

Arthur’s paler and thinner than usual, but he’s recovering well enough. The bullet miraculously missed the lung, only cracking a rib; he had been spitting blood due to biting through his lip, and Eames had simply been too panicked at the time to realize.

“Best open it,” Eames suggests, “before your sister decides we’re up to immorality.”

Arthur gives a smile that’s more fetching than it has any right to be. The scar on his lower lip gives him as dashingly rakish look. “She’d be so pleased to know I was capable of immorality,” Arthur confides, then tears the wrapping as gleefully as a five-year-old child.

Eames watches Arthur’s face: there’s a long moment of almost-scowl, and Eames is afraid he’s misjudged, then Arthur bursts into laughter. “Guitar Hero?”

“The shopgirl assured me you can play that dreadful Survivor song to your heart’s content,” Eames says, grinning back.

Arthur laughs again, and with no warning, leans forward and plants a kiss on Eames’ mouth. Eames catches his breath, but before he has time to respond properly, Arthur draws back. “Sorry,” he says, one hand going to his side. “Apparently I’m not up to immorality just yet.”

Eames takes Arthur’s hand, and presses his lips to Arthur’s knuckles. “I have to spend Christmas in London,” he says, “but what are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

 

**Reset: 11.59 pm December 31st/12.01 a.m. January 1st**

Arthur had bluntly stated he wouldn’t be dancing - “I’d rather wear myself out on you” -but he’d encouraged Eames to do so, and although Eames is loathe to ignore Arthur tonight – it is their first date - he’s obliged.

He’s refused partners, instead dancing at Arthur, grinding his hips, making come-hither faces, turning around and shaking his ass for Arthur’s appreciation, and Arthur has laughed and appreciated the hell out of his own personal beefcake show. And Eames has appreciated the hell out of Arthur, more or less sprawled in a chair, deliciously flushed from the heat of the club, mouth tasting of whiskey.

They’d promised to stay out until midnight, for reasons Eames doesn’t remember and now resents fiercely, because he’d much rather ring the New Year naked and rolling around naked in a very large bed with naked Arthur, naked.

The bartender shouts, “TEN!”; Eames pushes his way through the crowd to Arthur’s side. “Can we leave after this?” Eames asks plaintively. “I’m not in the mood for people who aren’t you.”

Arthur laughs - the countdown’s at six - and grins wickedly. “We could have left at any time.”

“Oh you bastard,” Eames breathes, and covers Arthur’s mouth with his own. Arthur’s fingers slide into Eames’ hair; Eames’ heart pounds so loudly that he can’t hear the countdown.

“Happy New Year,” Arthur says when they part.

Eames chuckles breathlessly, plants a lingering kiss below Arthur’s ear, relishing how Arthur’s breath falters. “It’s certainly shaping up that way.”


End file.
